


More Than Meets the Eye

by Graculus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Assumptions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:02:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graculus/pseuds/Graculus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt on the UNCLE kinkmeme but not 100% faithful to it (sorry, OP!) - Illya gets a nasty surprise and jumps to all sorts of conclusions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He didn't know how it had happened, except the first time they'd both been drunk. Not so drunk that they didn't know what they were doing, but drunk enough that, when Napoleon's hand had rested on Illya's shoulder a little too long and he'd turned to ask what he wanted, Napoleon had kissed him. After which he had pinned Napoleon to the wall and kissed him back, repeatedly, till they were both out of breath. 

From there, things had taken their natural course and the two of them had ended up in bed together. Illya wondered if he should have been surprised to discover that Solo was comfortable with the idea. He'd known the American had blazed a trail with the women he met, both on and off the job, but had never pictured him having sex with men. However, if anything Solo was a hedonist, that much was clear, liking the best of things and rejoicing in a wealth of experiences, so it made sense he wouldn't limit himself in any way. 

In contrast, Illya had always known he preferred the company of men to that of women. Not as friends, he was quite happy to count Gaby as one of those and flattered by her interest in him, but he preferred to have sex with other men. Naturally, given his line of work, he had to be more than unusually discreet and the thought of the possible repercussions if he were caught had acted as an effective control on his libido for longer than he cared to remember. And then Napoleon Solo had arrived in his life and turned everything upside down. 

It wasn't fair to blame everything on the American, tempting as it was. It wasn't, after all, Napoleon's fault that Illya was in love with him. He hadn't done anything to try and cultivate those emotions - if anything, quite the opposite. Nothing about his behaviour had changed since they had started having sex on a regular basis and this had left Illya feeling more than a little uncertain about where he stood. He knew how he felt for Napoleon but doubted that his feelings towards the other man were shared. 

Illya could, of course, tell himself that the other encounters Napoleon had were work-related, done for the purpose of gathering information or shoring up a less than perfect cover, but that didn't make it any easier. At least there were no grounds for comparison when Napoleon was expected to bed an heiress or a stewardess, given that those encounters could never replicate what he had experienced with Illya. And they always took place on mission, never in the bed that they shared.

At least that had been what Illya believed, right to the moment he found evidence to the contrary.

\----------------------

Illya woke alone. This wasn't all that unusual, particularly when he'd known that Solo was due to take an early flight to New Orleans.

That was all Waverly's fault - he seemed to have decided that the best thing to do between official UNCLE missions was to keep them as busy as possible, on the basis that idle hands were the devil's playthings, according to Solo. That wasn't a proverb Illya had encountered before, as his English language lessons had known their fair share of idiom but could not be expected to give him knowledge of them all. He got the gist, however, and where Solo was concerned, Illya had some sympathy with the idea, even if it meant they went to bed together and he woke up alone. 

It was an odd sensation, waking up in Napoleon's apartment and knowing he had left it - minutes or hours earlier, who could tell? - if he was still here, Illya would be able to hear him moving about and the quiet of the building let him know he was alone. He was almost getting used to this, since they spent most nights together, when they were in New York at least, because home and missions were something to be kept very separate. 

They didn't have sex while on a mission and Illya wondered if that was a way of encouraging each other to get the job done, so they could come back to New York and take up where they'd left off. It would also have been unfair to Gaby, who teased them enough when they were keeping their hands off one another, so Illya didn't want to imagine how ruthlessly she'd mock them if they were more intimate. They worked as a three, so they had to do missions as a three, not a pair and a spare - that would have been untenable, not to mention unprofessional in the extreme. 

Illya stretched, one eye on the window as he tried to guess what time it was. He'd undressed in something of a hurry the previous night, since things had started off in the shower and then moved to the bedroom. He could imagine the aftermath, now Solo had been up and about while he slept on; he'd be more than a little surprised if his clothes weren't folded neatly and piled up somewhere waiting for him. Illya rolled over, seeing the familiar shape of his father's watch on the bedside cabinet. He reached out and picked it up, checking the time even as his stomach growled its disquiet with a lack of breakfast. 

Checking the curtains were closed, Illya got out of bed and padded into the other room, heading for the kitchen. On the worktop he found a brown paper bag, to which was pinned a note. 'You are an appalling sluggard', it said, in Solo's handwriting. Illya grinned, then opened the bag to reveal a bearclaw - regardless of the contents of the note, Solo had obviously gone out this morning to the bakery before he'd left for the airport. He started a new pot of coffee to go with his pastry and headed to the bathroom for a shower.

\----------------------

It was funny how much quicker and more effective showers were without someone else there, Illya thought, comparing the previous night's experience - an enjoyable affair, even if he'd not been a whole lot cleaner when they finished - with the brief one he'd just taken. That was another thing Illya liked about Solo's apartment, it had very good water pressure, though he knew better than to mention it. That would just open the door to jokes about how Illya was only with him for his shower and the like, which he couldn't be bothered to address.

Illya went back to the kitchen, towelling his hair dry as he went. He poured himself a cup of coffee, savouring the smell as he added sugar and then all-but-inhaled it on the spot. There was nothing quite like that first cup, regardless of the source - the caffeine was more important than the quality of the brew, which meant awful gas station coffee could be just as acceptable as the finest Arabica if the need was there.

Time to get dressed and head back to his own apartment, then off to UNCLE. It was never quite the same when one of them was away, though Illya understood the need to keep up appearances and keep the various agencies with which they worked happy, which sometimes meant trips to New Orleans and the like. At least he hadn't drawn the short straw this time around, since this had a military aspect to it and the US Army were understandably jumpy about a Soviet liaison, regardless of UNCLE's reputation. 

And that meant paperwork, instead of being out in the field. That had never been Illya's favourite part of being an agent but he understood its necessity and always tried to apply the same dedication to the parts of the job he enjoyed less. It was quite possible he'd find some way of keeping himself entertained, particularly as Gaby was likely to be at headquarters and she would probably want to show off whatever she'd made recently. 

From being an expert with cars, she had quickly diversified on starting with UNCLE and now any spare time she had found her tinkering with some project or other, usually something that was practical rather than theoretical. She had even dragged him along to some ridiculous spy film and, ever since, he'd always secretly thought of her as being their real-life Q, though she had yet to supply him with anything quite as ridiculous as the character in the movie. 

When he was dressed, Illya sat down on the bed to tie his shoes and, finally, went to pick up his father's watch. A noise outside the window made him jerk instinctively, hand reaching for a non-existent gun - Waverly didn't much like them being armed when they weren't on a mission, regardless of America's relatively liberal gun laws - the sudden movement making his watch fall between the cabinet and the bed. He stood, going to the side of the window so he could see out without making himself a target, but though he stood there for a long couple of minutes Illya couldn't see any threat. 

Bending over to retrieve his watch, his fingers brushed against some kind of material, something soft against his fingertips, under the bed. He caught hold of both this and his watch, pulling them both out; the material turned out to be silk, dark red in colour, and clearly a pair of women's pants, given the amount of lace and ribbons adorning them. Once he realised what they were, Illya dropped them on the floor, kicking them back under the bed almost without thinking. 

Somehow, he was able to keep calm long enough to put on his watch and look for his coat, though his mind was already racing. He'd thought Napoleon had been honest with him, that their relationship was real, but he'd clearly been mistaken. What other secrets did Napoleon Solo have? How often were others in the American's bed, the nights when Illya wasn't? 

He'd been a fool to trust Solo in the slightest, he thought, as he slammed the door to his apartment behind him. One of his neighbours opened their door, as if to protest at the loudness of his exit, but took one look at Illya and retreated rapidly, closing their door much faster than they had opened it.

\----------------------

He had learned his lesson, Illya told himself, as he began to walk towards UNCLE's headquarters. It wasn't far, only a couple of miles, and he needed time to think before he had to make any kind of explanations to anyone about his mood. They'd notice, of course, they were agents after all - even the secretaries were highly trained, well-armed too, all quite able to go into the field if necessary. So he didn't stand much chance of keeping a secret from them and they probably already knew about him and Solo. Which meant they might well know exactly who it was that Solo was seeing when he wasn't with Illya, if that was something Illya wanted to find out.

He wasn't certain about that. It might be best to go to Waverly and ask to return to the KGB, rather than have to deal with the fallout from this ridiculous mockery of a relationship taking its inevitable course. Illya told himself he had been an idealistic fool to think that there could have been any other outcome, given Solo's reputation, but he'd let himself be talked round and eventually into bed with the other man. It was probably his modus operandi, with Illya being only the latest in a long line of conquests, just that most of them weren't either male or Russian.

Waverly wouldn't be happy, of course, that his little project hadn't worked out, but he could blame that on Solo's inability to keep a promise. That too shouldn't have been a surprise to any of them, least of all Waverly, who must have known what he was getting when he acquired Solo from the CIA. If nothing else, Solo was consistent - untrustworthy to the core. 

He'd miss Gaby, of course, and New York too. It had been a while since he'd spent any time in the city and Illya had forgotten how fond he'd become of it last time around, but the thought of staying there, of continuing to deal with Solo himself, was the last thing he could ever want. No, it was best to chalk this up to experience and move on. Back to the Soviet Union, where his talents would probably not be used as well but at least he knew where he stood. 

He would speak to Waverly when he arrived at headquarters, Illya decided, paying little attention to his surroundings except to try and cross at the light rather than jaywalk. That was about the extent of his ability to concentrate on what he was doing, he realised, when he was almost at headquarters and discovered he had little recollection of making the journey. 

It was, of course, quite possible that he'd even passed the woman who owned those silk knickers in the corridors of UNCLE. The thought sent a chill down Illya's spine - did she know about him and Solo? Was she, even now, laughing with her friends about how he thought Solo was faithful to him, while all along she (and how many others, he wondered) was also in his bed on a regular basis. That thought sealed his views on a future with UNCLE. It was impossible to contemplate staying somewhere like that, a place where he couldn't trust the people around him.

That sense of outrage carried him right through to Waverly's office and only began to fade a little when he stood before of the man himself. 

"Take a seat, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said, gesturing towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

Illya sat, marshalling his thoughts, which had seemed so clear on the walk from Solo's apartment but which now seemed fragmented and uncertain - he didn't know how much Waverly knew about their relationship and was reluctant to hand him more ammunition to use against whatever plan Illya could come up with. His actions with Solo could potentially cause him many more difficulties back home than they would in the US, even though many of the acts they'd indulged in were still illegal here in New York. He had no illusions about Oleg's likely response to discovering Illya had gone to bed with a former CIA agent and the impact that would have on his life expectancy back in the Soviet Union.

"Something I can do for you, Kuryakin?" Waverly asked, when Illya didn't say anything. 

Illya had the sense that Waverly could see right through him, that any kind of pretence was pointless, but he still had to try, if only to salvage whatever position he was likely to be returning to in Moscow. 

"I have request, sir," Illya began, conscious of Waverly watching him and certain he could see Illya was measuring out his words carefully. It was like walking on the thinnest of ice, sure that it would not hold his weight but needing to trust that it would to get through this. "I miss my home, so I would like to return to KGB."

Waverly didn't respond for what seemed like an eternity, just steepled his hands and looked at Illya.

"Is there a problem with Mr. Solo or Miss Teller?" he asked, the question going straight for the bone. "Of course, Mr. Solo is in New Orleans, but I believe Miss Teller is in the building." Waverly leaned across to his telephone, pressing a button to alert his secretary. "Miss Rogers, could you locate Miss Teller and ask her to come to my office?" From the other end of the line, Illya heard what must have been an acknowledgement of that request, even as his heart sank. 

"Would you like some tea while we wait?" Waverly continued, the question alone making Illya even more uncomfortable. He'd had many conversations with Oleg, but none of them had involved an offer of tea that he could recall. 

"Maybe I make mistake," Illya began, wondering if it was possible to get himself out of the hole he'd begun to dig. Waverly seemed to ignore him, getting up and crossing to a snall table which held an electric kettle and a teapot, among other things. "Yes, I think maybe missing Soviet Union is not enough for me to return." He was certain he was babbling, only the fact that Waverly was apparently more intent on making tea than listening to him allowing him to try and backpedal this way. 

The door opened. 

"Ah, Miss Teller," Waverly said, turning to greet her with a smile. "You're just in time for a cup of tea."

Gaby returned his smile, which disappeared as soon as Waverly had returned his attention to the kettle. She crossed to the other chair, settling herself in it with an expression on her face which didn't bode well for Illya and his welfare.

"What's going on?" she asked, quietly. "Lisa said you wanted to go back to Moscow."

"Lisa?" It took a moment for Illya to realise that Gaby meant Waverly's secretary, since he didn't think he'd ever heard her first name mentioned - Waverly was always formal, with both agents and secretaries alike, and Illya didn't have much dealings with Miss Rogers other than when he came to Waverly's office. "She listens?"

"Is it true?" Gaby asked, brushing over Illya's question as if he hadn't spoken. "Has Napoleon done something?"

Illya was saved from answering by the appearance of Waverly, cups of tea in hand, one placed in front of each of them. 

"Yes, Miss Teller," Waverly said, returning to his chair. "I was wondering that too: has Mr. Solo done something that has impacted on your working relationship?" His expression was intent, all the mild-mannered actions of making tea seeming as though they had never existed. "You can speak in confidence," he continued. 

He had a choice, of course. Illya knew that, just from the way Waverly asked the question. Solo had a reputation and most of it wasn't good, but was it fair for him to be punished for just being himself? It was Illya who had made the mistake, trusting Solo could be different - he was reminded of the story about the frog and the scorpion, the likelihood that some things were just in a person's nature and was it really fair to blame them for those actions if that were the case?

Gaby liked Solo too, Illya reminded himself, as he took a mouthful of tea to hide the fact he was still thinking about how to answer Waverly's question. She'd be disappointed in him - probably disappointed in both of them, if he was totally honest. It was nice to consider that Gaby could still be disappointed by someone's actions, that she wasn't already cynical enough to believe no-one could ever change. Though she'd probably think Illya had been an idiot to trust Solo's intentions and not bear his past actions in mind when it came to letting himself believe the American was trustworthy.

No, there was no good way forward if he chose to throw Solo under the metaphorical bus. It wouldn't work out well for any of them. 

"There is no problem with work." True enough, as far as it went. "I just want to go back to KGB."


	2. Chapter 2

Illya wasn't at all sure he had convinced anyone that this was what he really wanted, let alone Waverly, but since he didn't seem inclined to argue with the idea Illya supposed he had got his way regardless of that. Waverly had asked for a transition period, which was unsurprising as well, and which noticeably coincided with the time when Solo was likely to be back in town; clearly Waverly thought that Solo's absence was a problem when, if Illya could have told the truth, it was anything but. 

Was Waverly relying on the idea that Solo would talk him out of this? If so, he was acting on bad intelligence, but Illya supposed it was a reasonable enough assumption. If, that was, Solo wasn't a devious and untrustworthy individual with all the morals of a tomcat. 

He'd only had a couple of hours respite after that meeting, which was more than he'd expected to get. Gaby had cornered him in his office, putting her back against the door she had closed as if she expected Illya to try and make a break for it, not that she would be all that formidable a barrier to any such plans. She might like to wrestle but Illya had more experience in getting out of places he didn't want to be. 

"I can understand why you wouldn't want to say anything in front of the boss," Gaby began, her tone a clear attempt at being the reasonable one in the room. "But surely you can tell me what's going on?" 

Illya didn't answer, wondering if she planned tears next if she didn't get her way. He liked Gaby a lot, though obviously in a different and far less physical way than he'd liked Solo, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings but this was none of her business. He studied the files in front of him, the busywork Waverly had given him so he had something to do - he recognised the gesture for the kindness it was, even if Waverly didn't quite know why he needed to be occupied with something right now - wondering if outright telling her that would be more painful than letting things drag on. There was, after all, a school of thought that held it to be less painful to pull off the Band-Aid in one go rather than try and ease it off bit by bit. 

Illya couldn't claim to be an expert on emotional matters, by any stretch of the imagination, but he considered it quite possible that this was also true in these sorts of cases. Matters of the heart, he might have said, if he believed Solo had a heart and wasn't solely driven by another part of his anatomy completely. 

"Is not your business," Illya said, not looking at her. "Is just not where I should be."

That, at least, he felt was true. Now, for certain, even if he'd almost welcomed Waverly's declaration that he was free of the KGB for a little while, folded into this new thing he was creating. Maybe he could turn his hand to doing something good for the world, where previously (though he would never have dared air this view, certain what the repercussions would be, for him and for others he cared about) Illya had sometimes wondered if he was even serving the best interests of the Soviet Union. The will of some politician, perhaps, but the interests of the state were much harder to define. 

"So you're really going back to Moscow?" Of all of them, Gaby was the one who knew more about what he was returning to, all the things she had been so eager to leave behind in East Berlin. "You can't tell me this isn't about Napoleon." She had crossed to the desk now, leaning against it and looming over him as much as she could manage, given that he wasn't much shorter than her even though he was sitting down. "Tell me what you want me to do; I've learned a lot since joining UNCLE, I can make sure they never find his body."

Illya shook his head, dismissing the comment as seriously as if she'd meant it - if it had been someone else they'd been discussing, he might have been worried, but she liked Napoleon and he couldn't believe she'd harm him in any way. Shout at him, perhaps, and definitely embarrass him in as many ways as she could dream up, but physically hurt him? It wasn't in her nature and Illya hoped that would always be the case, despite her taking up this line of work. 

"I do not want to discuss," he said, turning a page he hadn't even read. She probably knew that, had probably realised he was avoiding her questions, but what could she do? Gaby had little enough to go on, since she couldn't know what had prompted his decision and he wasn't about to tell her. "Please, I need to work."

Persistent as she was, even Gaby had her limits. After a long moment, which seemed to stretch out into eternity, she shook her head and turned on her heel, heading out of the office and leaving Illya alone with his thoughts once more. He knew he'd have to speak with Solo too, once he came back from New Orleans and once Waverly (inevitably) told him of Illya's plans. He hoped there would not be too much bluster, that Solo wouldn't pretend he was innocent but would accept that there was no future for them, not with the way he clearly was. Not with what was, after all, his nature.

\----------------------

He was able to avoid Solo for the best part of a day, choosing his moment to leave headquarters - in search of lunch, of course, because fleeing the building to avoid seeing his partner would be ridiculous in the extreme - when he knew Solo would be in with Waverly.

He lingered over lunch, fitfully moving the last pierogi around on his plate till even the babushka who ran the small Polish restaurant slapped his hand and took the plate away from him, muttering under her breath about wasting perfectly good food. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts of how he could continue to avoid Solo, he would have seen her coming and his knuckles wouldn't be stining right now. 

She still brought him tea, despite her earlier disapproval, clucking over him like she always did. 

"Where is that nice young man of yours?" she asked, her accent so thick it took a moment for Illya to work out what she had said. "So well dressed, so polite."

He drank a mouthful of tea a little too quickly for his own good, biting back a curse at how hot it was; it seemed the only option to give himself a chance to think, to make an excuse that would work against the gimlet-eyed look for which he was currently on the receiving end. 

"Out of town," Illya said, finally, "he will be back soon."

She patted him on the shoulder this time, the gesture familiar enough to remind him of his own babushka, who had died when Illya was very young. He bit back a wave of homesickness, something he had always been able to manage up till now, partly because he didn't really have that much to miss but also partly because places like this had made him feel that New York was a little more like home than he'd previously realised. Except that wasn't true, was it? This wasn't his home, the people he worked with were colleagues and not friends, and the sooner he kept remembering that fact, the better it would be for everyone. 

The bell over the door rang as it opened, letting in a blast of icy New York winter air. For the briefest of moments, Illya entertained a fantasy that it was Solo, an apologetic version of the real thing, complete with a totally plausible explanation for what Illya had learned about him in the past few days. In this fantasy world, Illya would be unforgiving, stolid to the extreme, until the plaintiveness of Solo's demeanour, his outright begging for Illya's forgiveness made a tiny chink in his defences. Solo would swear to be faithful always - perhaps he'd even burn his address book, the gesture a symbolic vow to be true for the rest of his days. 

Behind him, gruff voices from another booth told the truth about who had come into the restaurant. The voices were muffled by scarves, gradually becoming clearer as the people concerned unwrapped themselves, requests for hot food in a mixture of strongly accented English and Ukrainian both strange and familiar at the same time. 

There was no fantasy world for Illya, not now or ever. Solo had done what he had done and they both had to live with the consequences, even if Solo didn't know that yet.

\----------------------

He'd stretched out his time away from headquarters for as long as he could, till the babushka had all but got her broom out to push him out of the restaurant after lunch; after that, Illya had deliberately taken a couple of wrong turns between there and headquarters, though he couldn't have said afterwards exactly where he'd gone. He couldn't keep away forever, unfortunately, even if he didn't now plan to be with UNCLE for very long.

Inevitably, on his return to his office, Illya found Solo waiting for him. 

"I was wondering when you'd get back," he said, with a grin. "Were the pierogies that good this week?"

Illya didn't answer, turning on his heel and letting the office door close between them as he headed down the corridor towards Waverly's office. He couldn't do this. The fact that Solo knew where he'd been and what he had for lunch was a clear demonstration that he'd become too comfortable here, that he'd allowed them to get to know him and this was obviously a sign he was ineffective as an agent for UNCLE. He would make Waverly understand this, somehow, and get himself transferred back to Moscow even sooner than he'd originally planned. 

At least Solo hadn't followed him, Illya was relieved to realise, since he was still alone by the time he reached Waverly's secretary. 

"He's gone for the day," she said, with a small shrug. "Should I pencil you in for tomorrow morning?" 

Not only was he an ineffective agent, he was also getting increasingly paranoid, Illya decided; he shook his head, made his excuses and then left. Waverly hadn't planned this deliberately, he couldn't believe that would be the case. Of course, it was in his interest to keep Illya, given his skillset, but to stoop to this kind of manipulation to do so? Illya had to believe it wasn't in Waverly's nature, though clearly he'd not been the best judge of character where any of his new associates were concerned. 

Returning to his office, Illya opened the door cautiously. The office was empty, the chair where Solo had sat now vacated, but the American had left a note for him on his desk. It took a deep breath before Illya could even pick it up, the instinct to screw it into a ball and throw it away unread almost too strong to counter. 

'See you later,' it read. 'Dinner at yours, I'll bring something over.'

At first, knowing what he knew now, the words didn't quite make sense. Even after Illya had refused to speak to him, had all but turned tail and run from him, Solo still thought everything was normal? Now Illya was left wondering just who was the ineffective agent round here, given that particular display of acuity. 

It was better this way, though, he decided after reading the note once more. If he'd come back and found Solo still here, Illya was certain he couldn't have kept his cool, that he'd have blurted out every thought in his head on the subject of Solo and his lack of trustworthiness, and that wasn't a discussion for the workplace. 

No, this was much better. He would be in a position of strength, in his own territory, ready to face whatever ridiculous excuses Solo might trot out. And then, when Illya had told Solo what he thought, when he'd had enough of all the lies once and for all, he could tell Solo to leave.

\----------------------

The note hadn't specified a time, so Illya was left waiting, half-watching the minute hand of the clock make slow progress as the evening passed by. Maybe Solo had changed his mind, Illya thought, when 8 came and went; he couldn't know Illya was onto him, but maybe something else had stopped him coming over as planned. Illya found himself watching not only the clock but also his communicator, wondering if at any moment he'd get a call to say that something had happened.

The knock on his apartment door was almost a surprise, even though he'd been waiting for it, making Illya jerk upright from where he'd been sitting - it took a moment before he even moved, long enough that the knock came again when he was halfway there. 

"Is it past all good communists' bedtimes?" Solo asked, when Illya opened the door. He had an armful of bags, the smell of garlic and fish sauce emanating from them - damn him, he'd brought Thai, which was Illya's favourite but would now be forever associated in his mind with tonight. "I'd say hello properly, but I need to put this stuff down first."

Illya stepped back, letting Solo into the apartment as he'd done a hundred times before. It was almost like watching a play, a performance starring an actor who looked uncannily like himself but who was not quite convincing enough in the role. Solo didn't seem to notice, though, keeping up a continuous chatter of noise as he headed into Illya's small kitchen and began to sort out their meal. 

"I don't want anything," Illya said, from the doorway. 

He hadn't expected the effect his words would have, which was to make Solo turn very slowly from where he was getting plates out of the cupboard and look him up and down. 

"Who are you and what have you done with Peril?" In any other situation, Illya might have even smiled at that, because it was an obvious assertion to make - he'd made no secret of his love for food in general and Thai food in particular. "Or is this loss of appetite connected to you pining for the steppes?" Solo continued, carefully putting down the plates he currently held. "I heard a bizarre rumour in the secretarial pool that you'd asked for a transfer back to the KGB."

"Is not rumour," Illya said, "is true."

That had Solo stopping what he was doing, hands braced on the kitchen countertop. He had his back to Illya, the line of his shoulders stiff with tension even from those few words, and Illya almost felt sorry for him. He knew what it was like, after all, to have your world turned upside down in a heartbeat.


	3. Chapter 3

He felt a little less certain now that he could do this, but it had to be done. Illya could be the reasonable one, keeping his cool for once despite any provocation, certain in the knowledge he was in the right. A clear statement of the situation, that would be enough, then he could ask Solo to leave and that would be that. Despite Waverly's evasive behaviour, Illya was certain he could be on a plane back to Moscow by the end of the week if he put his mind to it. 

"Is it Oleg?" Solo asked, clearly making himself resume dishing out their food. "Has he put pressure on you to do this?" He didn't turn around, concentrating on what he was doing and Illya wondered if Solo thought he was doing him some sort of favour, that he'd find it easier to admit this was the case if he thought Solo was otherwise occupied.

It was a logical conclusion to draw, Illya supposed - Oleg had made no secret of his views when it came to Waverly's scheme and Solo had overheard at least one conversation between him and his handler. He knew enough Russian to get the gist of what they'd been saying, Illya was certain of that, even if some of the more abusive words Oleg had used to describe the head of UNCLE had probably been an education for him.

"No, is not Oleg," Illya said, wondering if he still had an appetite, if Solo would take the food with him when he left. Perhaps not, if he had gone to all this trouble of dishing it out, that would make such a move more difficult. "No one is making me do this."

Except you, Solo, he wanted to add. You have made me do this, because I trusted you and you made a fool of me. I made a fool of myself, because I thought things could be different and now I have to deal with the consequences of that belief, as do you. 

"Then why, Illya?" Solo asked. He'd finished what he was doing, was bringing plates full of food to the small kitchen table, looking as comfortable here as he did in his own apartment. "Something must have happened to make you decide this, something recent."

That too was a logical conclusion, since they'd been together such a short time ago and it was reasonable for Solo to think Illya would have told him if this was something he was considering. 

"Here," he continued, sitting down. "Have some food and tell me what's going on."

The calmness with which Solo spoke, the way he picked up his fork and began eating as if this wasn't all his fault in the first place, made something inside Illya crack a little. He'd been so sure he could stay calm, that he wouldn't end up trashing his own apartment, even if he was only likely to be living her just a few days longer, but the sensations creeping over him were so familiar that he found he wasn't sure of anything any more. 

"Get out." Solo looked up at him, since Illya was now standing over him - perhaps 'looming' might be the right word, since he was standing and Solo still seated. He looked so surprised, Illya wondered for a moment what language he had spoken, certain it had been English but not completely sure. "Get out. Now."

Or else. Illya found himself thinking back to an Italian hotel room, to a scene of devastation he'd left in his wake for less provocation than this; he wondered what would have happened if Solo had come to check on him, instead of staying up in his own room, packing. Nothing good, that was certain. 

"You think I did something," Solo said, carefully putting his fork down on the table. He was holding his hands out, palm forward, as if reassuring Illya he was unarmed. It wasn't enough, Illya knew that; he could feel the grip he'd had on his temper starting to fray. "That's it, isn't it?"

Another step, and he'd be close enough to the table to flip it. Illya could already imagine the mess, the shattered plates and splattered food, the mess he'd end up cleaning up even though he would be leaving for Moscow soon. The thought of what he'd need to do afterwards wasn't enough of a deterrent to make his temper simmer down at all, he wasn't convinced anything could do that right now. 

"I was fool," Illya said. "Believing it was different. That *you* were different."

Solo had risen from his seat, backing away from the table - even as he found his hands fisting by his sides, Illya wondered if Solo's instincts were to protect himself from harm or protect his expensive suit from what would likely come its way in short order. They were good instincts, either way. 

"I don't get it." Solo was between Illya and the apartment door, that was a good move on his part. "What is it you think I did? Tell me, I have no idea."

Illya had to give Solo his due, he was clearly a better actor than he'd ever thought. He had to know what was going on, had to at least suspect that Illya had figured out he was having sex with other people as well. Surely he couldn't be so arrogant as to believe Illya wouldn't find out; even the great Napoleon Solo had his limits!

"You need sex, that is all?" Illya demanded. "No matter who?" 

Did he want to know who, if Solo would tell him? Illya wasn't sure it mattered, not the details of who or when, the act alone was enough. 

"Sometimes I have to do things, for the mission," Napoleon said. It sounded like he was explaining things to a child, his tone placatory as if Illya was the one in the wrong here. 

"Is not mission." He could have coped with that, had coped with that on more than one occasion, and the fact that Solo apparently thought Illya could be so naïve about the role sex often played in a successful mission was more than a little annoying. "Is here in New York, in your apartment." 

"My apartment?" He was turning in an Oscar-worthy performance. If it hadn't been for the evidence of his own eyes, Illya would probably have been convinced by now, since Solo was just that believable. "Illya, nobody has been in that bed except you and me for *months*."

The urge to send everything flying was still there, simmering in the background, but now Illya was starting to feel something else as well. Something unexpected, a whisper of uncertainty creeping out from beneath the belief he'd been betrayed, a quiet voice asking if he'd made a mistake after all. But he'd seen the evidence, known what it meant the moment his fingers touched the material, hadn't he?

"Come with me," Solo said, abruptly. "Let me see what you saw, so we can fix this." He took a step towards Illya, hand outstretched as if he meant to grab him by the sleeve, urge him to come along, then seemed to think better of his actions when Illya stiffened at the movement. "I was never quite as much a playboy as you might have thought, or even as I might have wanted, if Sanders hadn't been running me ragged halfway round the world."

"Let me get my coat," Illya said, making a sudden decision. The expression on Solo's face told him it was a surprise, that he'd thought he'd need to work harder to get Illya to go along with whatever it was he had planned. "Meet me downstairs."

Illya knew he needed a moment, to gather his thoughts and figure out if this was worth the trouble. To try and get his anger back under control, ruthlessly shoving it down till he was certain he wouldn't explode again, that no matter what happened at Solo's apartment he would stay on top of his emotions. He had his whole future ahead of him, whether back in Moscow or here in UNCLE, and taking his feelings out on Solo wouldn't help with that, wherever he ended up. 

"Do you trust me?" Solo asked, when he came down to find him standing by the roadside, waiting. That was a loaded question if ever there was one - even days earlier, Illya would have probably said he did, if he hadn't brushed off the question with a sarcastic remark, one Solo would have let go or answered with sniping of his own. "You know you can."

"If you say so," Kuryakin said, not missing the slight wince Solo gave at the coldness of his tone.

\----------------------

Solo's car had been parked nearby, since he'd driven over via the Thai restaurant where he'd picked up takeout, and Kuryakin let him drive them both to his apartment building. He didn't speak, didn't comment on the way Solo drove or his choice of which roads to take, just stared out of the window even though he was certain Solo was sneaking glances at him as they crossed town.

Once, a few weeks back, Solo had suggested that Illya move in - not to share Solo's own apartment, since even he didn't have the lack of survival instinct that kind of suggestion would indicate, but to an apartment which had become vacant on the floor above. For a little while, Illya had even given it serious consideration; now, in hindsight, he was glad he hadn't made the move. His transfer back to Moscow might still fall through and then he'd have been stuck living in the same building as Solo, forced to make small talk if they encountered each other in the stairwell or on the street outside. Seeing him at work, knowing what they had once shared, would have been bad enough.

"Show me," Solo said, letting Illya precede him into his apartment. "Let's see what caused all this, because last time I saw you here you were asleep in my bed and everything was fine."

"I show," Illya said, making a straight line for Solo's bedroom, crossing to the bed and sitting down where he'd sat before, his hand under the bed. It was still there, he knew the moment his fingers touched the silky material and snagged it, pulling it out. "Here. Proof you are liar."

"Well, I can see how this looks..." Solo began, his expression unexpectedly relaxed for a man who had just been caught out. 

"It looks like you are man who cannot be trusted," Illya said. He crumpled up the lingerie in his fist, aware of his calluses catching on the cloth, before throwing them at Solo's chest; he was quick, Illya had to give him that, grabbing at the pants before they fell to the floor. "Tell me is not true, make me believe it." He could hear the chill in his words now too, so icy they could have been blown direct from Siberia, the scorn underlying them equally obvious to them both. 

"Let me show you something," Solo said, turning towards the closet. It was, as Illya had always suspected would be the case, full of expensive shirts and even more expensive suits, with a shelf running across above the rack where they hung. From that shelf, Solo pulled a box - it didn't look like much, no manufacturer's label on it or anything to say what it contained. "Here," he continued, dropping the box onto the bed, unopened. "Maybe this will help explain."

Solo took a step back. He was still holding the pants Illya had thrown at him; he was trying to look calm but his hands were playing with the material, their movement betraying that he wasn't quite as relaxed as he might want Illya to think. 

Illya examined the box for a moment, then flipped off the lid. It was full, crammed to the brink with items of clothing just like the one he'd thrown at Solo, a multitude of colours and textures. Despite what this box seemed to represent, Illya itched to put his hands in, to feel the silk catch against the calluses from the guns and knives he handled every day of his life. 

"What is this?" he asked. "Trophies?" Illya picked up the lid, dropping it down onto the box before he could allow himself to touch anything inside. "Is there also a box for men?"

"No," Solo said. "And they're mine."

Illya turned slowly, uncertain what Solo was saying and whether he'd misunderstood the words. Surely the American wasn't trying to make him believe that all of this, all that colour and softness, lace and ribbons, belonged to him? 

"Show me," he said, after a moment's hesitation. Illya told himself he was calling Solo's bluff, that this was nonsense, a story to cover up his true behaviour and, taken far enough, Solo would admit the truth. "If all this," he gestured towards the box and its contents, "belongs to you."

"This wasn't how I wanted you to find out," Solo said. "I'm not sure if I ever wanted you to find out, if we're being totally honest."

He'd shoved the pants he had been holding into his trouser pocket, hands then busy undoing his tie. That was dropped unceremoniously onto a nearby chair, the suit jacket following soon after. Illya couldn't bring himself to look away, even though this should be the least erotic thing he'd ever seen - Solo was stripping down, like he'd seen him do a hundred times before, but the thoughts of what the box on the bed contained kept creeping in. Solo was half-dressed now, fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt, which he shrugged off, then his trousers. Underneath, his pants were pale grey cotton, nothing like as exciting as the ones Illya had found and more what Illya had expected to see.

"I don't wear those when I'm at work," Solo said, angling his head towards the bed. "Too much chance of getting caught and then where would my reputation be?" 

He was naked now, except for the grey pants, while Illya was still fully dressed. Not that this made Solo look vulnerable, even as he turned his back on Illya and folded his trousers carefully onto a chair, then walked to the bed and the box that still sat on it. 

"Any colour preference?" he asked, removing the lid. "I was never a pastels man myself." 

With one hand, Solo shoved down the pants he was wearing, letting them drop to his feet and stepping out of them. The other hand picked up a confection of silk and lace, dark green and blue, an insignificant amount of material when seen in this way. It tangled on Solo's fingers for a moment before he put them on, stepping carefully into them and then adjusting the fit across his hipbones. Another adjustment had his half-hard cock covered - barely covered, Illya realised immediately, since he couldn't take his eyes from it - by a sliver of material that had to be whisper-thin. It was already dampening from Solo's own excitement; was he really getting off on being watched, being seen to be dressed this way?

"What do you think?" Solo asked, turning to face him. He was a little flushed across his cheekbones; his eyes were steady, even as Illya's gaze slowly raked him up and down, lingering across the pants, the way the material strained against what it held. "Is green my colour?"

Illya's mouth was dry. He'd heard the expression 'lost for words' so many times and yet never experienced it before, not till now. He wondered what it would feel like, to be dressed the way Solo was, to slip his fingers between the skin-warmed silk and the skin beneath, to let Solo rut against his hand, against his leg while dressed this way. 

"I take it you approve," Napoleon said, with a growing smile. "I promise you," he said, hand resting on the box, "they're all my size, all waiting for me or for a suitably appreciative audience." His expression cooled a little. "I wish you'd trusted me, Illya, but I can see why you wouldn't."

"You have reputation," Illya said. He understood that much, at least. And this wasn't the kind of thing anyone was going to easily admit to, that much was certain too - bad enough, from some people's perspective, that Napoleon was equally happy to sleep with men as with women, but then to add this kind of behaviour to the mix? "But I am glad I was mistaken."

"Me too," Napoleon said, pushing the box onto the floor. "But how about we get you naked too so we can make up for lost time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows, there may even be a smutty epilogue to follow..? ;)


End file.
